


Nice Day for a White Wolf Wedding

by Tsimmes



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26302066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsimmes/pseuds/Tsimmes
Summary: Jaskier and Valdo Marx get double-booked for the wedding of the year. Geralt is forced to tag along. A wedding without Geralt and Jaskier inadvertently causing or getting involved in chaos is considered a dull affair.
Kudos: 5





	1. Double Booked

“Come on, Geralt, an evening of feasting, of beautiful women, and best of all, song!”

“You have a very short memory,” said Geralt.

“It can’t possibly go worse than that time in Cintra, Geralt, honestly…" Jaskier froze in the tavern doorway. “Oh, _fuck_.”

Geralt shot him a look. “What is it?”

At the center of the tavern, a bard in scarlet silks and a frankly ridiculous feathered hat strummed an ornately inlaid lute, crooning some maudlin love song that every woman in the tavern imagined he’d written exclusively for her. “Valdo. Fucking. Marx,” Jaskier muttered.

“The troubadour of Cidaris?”

“A talentless wastrel who panders to the tastes of the m—” Valdo suddenly stopped and strode over to Jaskier and Geralt. Clearly Jaskier hadn’t quite mastered muttering under his breath.

“Ah, Julian Alfred Pankratz! The dandelion of Lettenhove!” Jaskier winced as Valdo clapped him heartily on the shoulder.

“Valdo! Always a _singular_ pleasure to see you,” Jaskier said with acid coated in treacle.

“Oh, surely we can dispense with pleasantries, Julian,” Valdo said, and turned to Geralt. “And this must be the White Wolf himself, _Geralt of Rivia_ ,” Valdo sang Geralt’s name. Jaskier glowered. Geralt glowered harder. Valdo turned to the barmaid and flashed a winning smile. “A round for the White Wolf and for my dear friend here,” he said, tossing a small bag of coins. “Keep the rest for yourself, darling.” The barmaid blushed and hurried off behind the bar.

Geralt whispered to Jaskier with the barest hint of a smirk, “He seems like a pleasant enough fellow,” Jaskier glared at him.

At a table in the corner, Geralt and Jaskier sat across from Valdo. “So,” Valdo said after taking a theatrical quaff from his pint glass. “What brings you to Roggeveen? The masses not tossing you quite as many coins over in Cintra?”

“I’ve come for a command performance at the nuptials of the Viscount of Roggeveen’s eldest daughter, if you must know,” said Jaskier.

“My, what a coincidence!” Valdo flashed a lupine grin. “So have I.”

Jaskier had been wondering why he was only offered a fraction of his usual booking fee. “Have you now?” was about the best comeback Jaskier could muster that didn’t involve fighting words. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Geralt making an expression that probably indicated amusement. At his expense. So much for having a big scary Witcher to back him up in times of peril such as this.

“Oh, yes,” said Valdo. “I daresay this will be the wedding of the age: not one, but two bards to regale the happy couple. They will weep at my stirring, romantic ballads, and…well, I’m sure the Viscount _appreciates_ whatever creative direction you’ve taken lately.” Valdo raised his glass. “A toast! To the art of barding!”

Jaskier raised his glass in turn. “May you master it one day, Valdo,” he said with a smile as their glasses clinked.

* * *

“FUUUUUUUUCK!”

Geralt raised his eyes from his whetstone to look bemusedly at Jaskier.

“Fucking cock shitting fuck ass motherfucking fuck!”

“Brainstorming lyrics, Jaskier?”

“Don’t you start,” Jaskier said. He paced their tiny room above the tavern and gesticulated wildly. “My first command performance in gods know how long, and that prancing popinjay masquerading as a bard waltzes in, takes half my fee, and steals my thunder with his pandering, vapid drivel one could only charitably call music! It’s…it’s downright highway robbery, Geralt!”

“We could always find that djinn again,” Geralt mused.

Jaskier sighed dramatically. “Always resorting to violence,” he chided.

“You started it,” said Geralt.

Jaskier harrumphed and picked up his lute. He strummed a few angry-sounding chords and angrily scribbled in his notebook, the nib of his quill piercing the paper in places.

“Do you need something that rhymes with ‘Valdo Marx can go fuck himself’?” Geralt asked, not looking up from sharpening his sword, and barely flinching when Jaskier lobbed a balled-up bit of scrap paper at him.

“Hush or I’ll make you dress like a sad silk trader again,” Jaskier said.

“Elf, shelf…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stream Jaskier's hot new single "Valdo Marx Is A Fugly Slut" for clear skin.


	2. Jaskier's Triumphant Performance

Jaskier shifted his lute case strap from shoulder to shoulder. “Alright, Jask, be cool,” he murmured to himself. “You’ve got this,” he whispered. He had a foolproof set list designed to outshine Valdo: open with a crowd favorite, one that’s easy to sing along to three tankards deep. The one about the lonely peasant girl running off to the capital at midnight, definitely. Then, time to break out the heartfelt love ballad – the one comparing a lover to the golden hues of the sunset would do nicely. Then, a jig. Finish with Fishmonger’s Daughter when everyone’s well and truly sloshed. If applicable, an encore with something anthemic. Toss A Coin, if requested, perhaps? Geralt would probably use him as bruxa bait for that, but one has to give the people what they want.

“So, in addition to your archrival, how many cuckolded aristocrats am I protecting you from tonight?” Geralt muttered as they made their way into the hall.

“I’ll have you know that I’ve been on my very best behavior, Geralt, and I take umbrage at you impugning my honor,” Jaskier said. He paused for a moment as he looked over the assembled guests. His shoulders sagged and he looked back at Geralt. “The Countess de Merve is especially miffed with me.” 

Geralt sighed and plucked a goblet off of a proffered tray.

Before either of them had time to react, Valdo, swathed in enough yards of bright silk and satin to cover a peasant’s field, sidled up and clapped both of them on the back. “Ah, the other half of our little double act, arrived at last!” Valdo pronounced. He smelled of sickly sweet, flowery perfume. Jaskier fought the urge to sneeze.

“Witcher!” Valdo exclaimed as he put an overly chummy arm around Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt wordlessly batted Valdo’s arm way. Undaunted, Valdo continued. “I suppose Julian has brought you along as his most lucrative muse.”

“I came here to drink,” Geralt grumbled. Valdo fortunately took the hint and strode back towards the musicians.

"Try to at least pretend you enjoy my performance," Jaskier stage-whispered to Geralt as he pulled out his lute to tune it. 

* * *

As far as he could tell, Jaskier’s opening set of songs went swimmingly. After he belted out one final “ _a friend of humanity_ ”, he pointedly avoided meeting Geralt’s death glare, and instead flashed a smug grin at Valdo. As Valdo came forward to take the floor, Jaskier clapped him on the shoulder. “Your move,” he said.

Valdo strummed a bright and cheery chord with a dramatic flourish, but suddenly and very uncharacteristically went silent, looked up at the moonlight streaming in through the window, and began to twitch. Jaskier’s thought that maybe the djinn had gotten around to his wish turned to, he could scarcely believe it, concern. Then terror, because Valdo’s face twisted and morphed into the snarling snout of a wolf, and his ostentatious silks tore to shreds as his body expanded and his bones crunched sickeningly, hunching him over to hide his new, imposing height. His long fingers were now sharp claws, and he was now covered in matted gray fur. Valdo Marx, the troubadour of Cidaris, was a werewolf.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Jaskier and Geralt said in unison.


	3. The Stuff of My Next Tavern Standard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jaskier is actually useful in a fight

The wedding guests began to scream after realizing that Valdo's sudden transformation wasn’t a surprise magic act. The Viscount of Roggeveen tried in vain to appeal for calm before ducking under the head table as Valdo snarled at him and charged forward. A few guests drew their daggers, or picked up candelabras and centerpieces as improvised weapons. Not that the motley arsenal would do them any good.

“This explains so much!” Jaskier yelled as Geralt yanked him backwards by the collar and tossed him to the side, out of Valdo’s path.

“EVERYONE OUT OF THE HALL!” Geralt shouted as he drew his silver sword and necked a potion before steeling himself to face down Valdo. The wedding guests hastily obliged, rushing for the exits.

Jaskier of course stayed behind, ducked behind a table Valdo had upturned mid-transformation. Why was it that every wedding or betrothal feast he attended ended in carnage? He chanced a quick peek over his barricade to see Geralt, his amber eyes black as midnight, facing the lupine beast with shining silver sword in hand. _Oh, this is the stuff of my next tavern standard_ , he thought. Should he leave in the bit that the lupine beast was also his nemesis? He had little time to mull over that creative decision before he heard a strangled grunt of pain from Geralt, and his eyes and Valdo’s met. He felt something metal under his palm as he fell backwards in his haste to take cover. The tines of a silver dessert fork, polished to a high shine that very day, left an imprint on his hand. _Silver_ , Jaskier thought as he palmed it.

Valdo turned back to his original target, and swiped Geralt across the chest, sending him thudding to the stone floor. Between the blood loss and the impact of being thrown, Geralt’s strength was flagging. But Valdo still advanced. Geralt desperately reached for his sword with his still halfway good arm as Valdo’s snapping jaws drew ever closer. He lifted his more mangled arm up, ready to make the sign of Axii, to try to calm Valdo down enough to turn him back. But suddenly, Valdo yelped and tried to claw at his own back. Jaskier clung to Valdo’s back by his matted fur, and stabbed at him repeatedly.

“It’s silver!” Jaskier shouted, waving the now bent and bloody dessert fork. Small tendrils of steam rose from the shallow punctures Jaskier managed to make. It was frankly a monumentally stupid idea, but it was just enough distraction to buy Geralt precious time. He managed to grab his sword in his left hand: not ideal but better than unarmed. Jaskier held on for dear life as Valdo wildly swung and flailed about in an attempt to buck him off. Jaskier quickly lost his grip and was thrown to the floor in a heap next to Geralt.

“What now?” Jaskier called out over Valdo’s howls and roars as they both scrambled upright.

“We hold out till dawn, until he changes back!” Geralt yelled.

“Brilliant!” Jaskier said, too hopped up on adrenaline to make it sound as sarcastic as he meant it. A moment later, as he caught a dagger Geralt tossed to him, something clicked: “Wait, what? We’re not going to kill him?”

“Werewolves are cursed; they can be cured –" Geralt paused to parry another blow from Valdo’s claws. “Or learn to control it.”

“How the fuck much longer until—argh!” Valdo clawed at Jaskier’s arm, shredding his right sleeve. “You owe me a new doublet, Valdo!” Jaskier yelled indignantly, and then surveyed the damage: three angry slashes that smarted like hell, which he’d of course milk for all they were worth when (if) this was all over. A grievous wound sustained in defense of Roggeveen against the lupine beast, which he personally faced that fateful night. What was a good rhyme for Roggeveen?

“Jaskier, down!” Geralt shouted. Jaskier hastily dropped to the stone floor as Geralt made the sign for Igni. A flash of flame shot forth, and Jaskier felt the ends of his hair singe slightly. Valdo stumbled backward, disoriented. Geralt made the sign of Axii and spoke softly: “you are Valdo Marx, the troubadour of Cidaris. You are a bard, not a beast. You are cursed. You are not a monster. Remember who you are.”

Valdo grunted quizzically at him. A glimmer of humanity glinted in his eyes, before it suddenly dimmed again. Valdo let out a bloodcurdling howl and clawed at Geralt again, sending him crashing to the floor. Beams of sunlight began to creep through the windows of the hall. Valdo staggered and stopped in his tracks as the sun rose over the horizon and bathed the hall in light. He fell to the floor, as if he were melting. A moment later, an unconscious, nude, but, most importantly, human Valdo lay in a heap on the floor. It was over.

By his own rapid estimation, Jaskier was the only one in the room fully in possession of his faculties, aside from his still-bleeding arm. He crawled to Geralt first. “Geralt,” he said, shaking him, careful to avoid the deep slashes from Valdo’s claws. “Geralt, wake up, it’s over now,” Jaskier whispered urgently, smacking Geralt’s abraded cheek. “Geralt, come on!” Geralt began to stir. “Oh, thank the gods,” Jaskier exhaled, and without thinking, pulled Geralt into a tight hug.

“Jaskier?” Geralt mumbled, then grunted in pain. Jaskier realized in that instant that tightly hugging someone who had just been mauled by a werewolf was probably ill-advised, and let go.

“It’s over, at least I think so,” Jaskier said, pushing himself back into a sitting position next to Geralt. He glanced over to Valdo. "Is…is he dead?”

Geralt slowly sat up, took stock of his injuries, and then turned to the prone form of Valdo Marx. “He’s alive,” said Geralt.

The day before, Jaskier would have muttered “unfortunately”, but now, he felt an odd pity for Valdo Fucking Marx, of all people. The man had been cursed, and probably wouldn’t be a werewolf if given a choice. Sure, Jaskier had wished death upon him, but an eternity being forced to live his nights as a bloodthirsty beast, unable to control his own mind? That was probably a bridge too far. With some difficulty, Jaskier stood up and offered a hand to Geralt, who struggled to his feet and leaned on Jaskier.

Valdo soon stirred. “Wha---what happened? And where in blazes are my clothes?” Thinking quickly, Jaskier handed him a heraldic banner that had fallen from its hooks in the fracas. It would have to do. Perhaps he could make it seem like the latest fashion.

“You’ve been cursed, bard,” said Geralt, holding a hand to his side. “You’re a werewolf.”

“That’s one way to break that news gently,” muttered Jaskier.

“A werewolf?” Valdo repeated in disbelief. “How – how do I free myself of this curse?”

“I don’t know,” Geralt admitted. “But Wolfsbane may help you control it until you can find a way to break the curse.”

Valdo cocooned himself in the banner and shakily stood up. He looked at Jaskier. “I suppose you’re glad to see that my career is over,” he said morosely.

Jaskier felt blood rush to his ears. “I find a little competition motivates me,” said Jaskier after a long pause. “And besides, the masses have fickle memories; a little stretching of the truth may make the beast someone else entirely, while the troubadour Valdo Marx escaped the beast by the skin of his teeth…and for the sake of his health, is only taking daytime bookings.”

Valdo gave him and Geralt a look of gratitude. “Oh, and, uh, sorry about…” Valdo trailed off and gestured to Geralt and Jaskier’s wounds.

“They’ll heal,” Geralt grumbled. Jaskier nodded in agreement. The doublet-debt could be settled later. 


	4. Epilogue

“ _I couldn’t let Roggeveen come to harm, I fought off the beast and nearly paid with my arm_ ,” Jaskier sang, pausing to roll up his sleeve to show the still-healing claw marks on his bicep. And flex while he was at it, though oh, it hurt so much to do it. He winced theatrically. A few maids in the tavern gave him pitying looks or murmured “poor baby”. 

In the far corner, Geralt rolled his eyes and gingerly nursed his beer. Jaskier strutted back to their table with a sack of coin in hand.

“Must you include the striptease?” Geralt asked.

“Hardly a striptease,” Jaskier said as he readjusted his shirt. “I’m merely adding a visual element to the tales of my heroics.”

“Seems like pandering to the tastes of the masses,” Geralt said. Jaskier lightly kicked him under the table. Geralt winced. Witchers healed faster than humans, but it was still far from immediate. Jaskier shot him an apologetic look. 

“So," Jaskier took a swig of beer and changed the subject. "How _does_ one cure lycanthropy?” 

“Some say it’s a matter of getting a shirt soaked in specific herbs onto the afflicted and keeping it on them till they turn, others say true love,” said Geralt. “Not sure who’s telling the truth.”

“Option two seems considerably more difficult,” mused Jaskier.

"You try getting a pissed off werewolf dressed." 

Jaskier swirled his beer mug around on the table. "Well...it's a bit less abstract and subjective," he said. "True love can be, shall we say, elusive." 

“Especially for Valdo Fucking Marx?”

“Maybe someone out there wants him,” Jaskier said with a small smile.


End file.
